Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (15 page)

If Guatemalan drug lords were anything like Mexican drug lords, were we all in danger thanks to my too-sexy-for-his-own-good tenant? After all, a significant number of Guatemalan immigrants lived in New Jersey. Any number of them could be part of that Guatemalan drug pipeline.

For all I knew, Zack had a price on his head. That meant none of us was safe. I didn’t care what sort of security clearance the government required for Zack to divulge his true occupation. He’d damn well better come clean to me. I had my kids and Mama to think of, as Zack so often reminded me.

_____

As soon as I returned home that night, I jotted a note and taped it to Zack’s door.
Need to see you ASAP. A
. Then I waited. And waited. And waited. By ten o’clock I could no longer keep my eyes open. I opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. No lights on in Zack’s apartment. No silver Porsche Boxster parked in the driveway.

I returned to the kitchen and called his cell.

This is Zachary Barnes. If I’m not answering, I’m probably on a plane to somewhere or already there and out of satellite range. Leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible, which could be anywhere from a few minutes to a few months
.

Great. I hung up without leaving a message.

Fifteen

For the next two
days I obsessed about Guatemalan hit squads, even though I so didn’t need another obsession taking over my life. Obsessing about my lack of money, mountain of debt, looming college tuition, and whether or not Lou’s killer had his sights set on Mama or me should have been enough obsession for any one person. Whoever doled out obsessions needed to start picking on someone else. The last thing I needed was worrying about some machete-wielding maniac out to revenge his brother/cousin/uncle/warlord back in the hills of Guatemala, while the cause of that obsession was out gallivanting who-knew-where doing who-knew-what.

By the time Zack arrived home late Friday afternoon, I’d obsessed myself into a frenzy of unprecedented histrionic proportion. Lack of sleep—due to said obsessing—and a case of PMS to end all PMS had contributed to my Crazy Lady transformation
which I unleashed on an unsuspecting Zachary Barnes the moment
he pulled into the driveway and parked his car.

“You and I need to talk,” I screamed, not caring whether the neighbors heard me. Hell, people clear across town probably heard me.

“I want answers, and I don’t care what sort of government clearance I need. You’re not putting my kids in danger. I won’t
allow it.” I shook with rage. Tears rushed down my cheeks. “You tell me the truth, Zack. You tell me now. Or you can pack up and clear out this minute.”

I don’t know what I expected after that tirade, but it certainly wasn’t what happened next. Zack closed the gap between us in one long stride and wrapped me in his arms.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just take a deep breath and calm down. No one is going to hurt you or the boys. I promise.”

I gulped air and tried to stop crying, but the damn dam had burst,
and the tears wouldn’t let up. Deep in the back of my mind I realized I was in the throes of a full-fledged panic attack, but rational Anastasia had fled the scene, leaving a bundle of raw emotion in her place.

Yet in another recess of my emotion-soaked brain it suddenly occurred to me that having Zack’s arms wrapped around me felt incredibly wonderful. My PMS-rampaging hormones began to mellow. One by one they sighed in contentment. Even though my tears continued to flow, they now spilled forth for an entirely different reason.

Zack’s reaction to my meltdown gobsmacked me with the reality of my life. I was lonely. I was hurt. I was damn angry. And it was all Karl’s fault. Even the Guatemalan hit squad.

Without Karl’s deceit, I would have had no need to rent out the apartment over the garage. I’d still be using it for my studio. I never would have met Zack, and I wouldn’t now be worrying about Guatemalan hit squads coming after me and my family. Even in death Karl had found a way to continue screwing me.

While my mind was placing blame on Karl, Zack led me upstairs, unlocked his door, and sat me down on his sofa. My anger at Karl settled my sobs, although the tears continued to fall silently, splashing onto my lap. I swiped at my eyes, trying to stem the tide, but I had little success.

This was the first time I’d allowed myself to cry since Dead Louse of a Spouse had died. From time to time I’d well up, especially in the first few weeks as my life devolved from American Dream to Teeming Landfill of Shit, but anger had kept the tears at bay. No longer.

“Here. Drink this,” said Zack.

He held a glass of something dark and rich looking and most likely alcoholic in front of me. I reached for it. “Will it help?”

He shrugged. “Can’t hurt. Drink up.”

I did as I was told, taking a tentative sip at first. Cognac. Zack held an open bottle of Remy Martin in his other hand. My tears abated; my anger returned. “You live above a garage but drink cognac that costs more than my weekly supermarket bill? Who the hell are you?”

“Ah, we’re back to that.” Zack poured himself a glass of the cognac and sat down beside me.

I gulped down the remainder in my glass, letting the burn reinforce my anger. Slamming the glass onto the coffee table, I twisted to face him. “Damn right. You owe me some answers.”

He refilled my glass. “Sip. Don’t gulp.”

Damn him. “I’ll gulp if I want.” I picked up the glass and polished the cognac off in one chug. The jolt skyrocketed straight to my head. Damn. Why was I acting so peevish?

Zack shook his head. “Maybe we should talk before you get too drunk to hear anything.”

That jolt had reinforced my peevishness. I picked up the bottle and poured more into my glass. “Maybe I need to get drunk. It will help me forget.”

Zack grabbed both my glass and the bottle. “That’s not going to solve anything.”

I grabbed the glass back. “Says who?”

“Forget what?”

“Huh?”

“See, you’re already having trouble following. What are you trying to forget?”

“Oh, that.” I waved away my confusion with another long swallow. “Everything. Karl. Bills. Guatemalan hit squads—”

“Guatemalan hit squads?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Zack. I figured it all out. Cloris was right. You are CIA or something. You didn’t go down to Guatemala to shoot a spread about inda … inde … indig—.” Oh hell. I couldn’t even get the word out. At least, the cognac was working.

“Indigenous?” he offered.

“Right. That. Whatever. Native costumes. That was only your cover. You went to flush out pot farms and disrupt a drug pipeline. And now they’re probably after you, and that puts me and my kids and Mama in harm’s way.

“And what about that voicemail of yours? Who goes off where they can’t be reached for months at a time? No photo-journalist I’ve ever known. Only spies and Special Forces and Navy SEALS. You lied to me. You men are all alike. Karl. Lou. You. All liars.”

“Really? How many photo-journalists have you known?” he asked. “Not to mention Special Forces and Navy SEALS.”

“None. But that’s besides the point. No one is out of communication these days unless they choose to be. Even the astronauts up in the International Space Station make and receive calls.”

With that last bit of information my steam ran out. I started crying again, all the more so because Zack hadn’t denied anything I said. Through my tears, I watched him get up and walk into the bathroom. He returned shortly and placed a wet washcloth on the back of my neck.

“You’ve been keeping a hell of a lot bottled up for the past three months,” he said. “Cry as much as you need to. Then we’ll talk.” He strode across the room and opened the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To let Alex and Nick know where you are. Have they had dinner yet?”

I shook my head. “I’m a lousy mother.”

“You’re a great mother, just scared and overwhelmed. Had you planned anything?”

“Chicken. In the fridge. Needs to go on the grill.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

I gulped back a huge sob. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Somebody has to.” With that he was out the door.

_____

I woke to a full bladder and the sound of chirping birds. I had no memory of how I got into bed. No memory of anything beyond Zack leaving to cook dinner for my kids. Zack! Talk about recall remorse. One minute I’m blubbering all over the man; the next minute I’m screaming at him like a half-cocked banshee. Pathetic! Maybe if I kept my eyes closed, I’d never have to face him again.

Unfortunately, my bladder had a different agenda. I tossed off the quilt and rolled over—right into an upholstered barrier. My eyes sprang open. This wasn’t my bed. This wasn’t even my house.

“Good morning,” said an all too familiar voice. “Coffee will be ready shortly.”

“What time is it?” I asked, stretching the kinks out of my body. Forty-two-year-old women should not spend the night on a couch. I ached in places I didn’t even know could have aches.

“Nearly six.”

“What? I slept twelve hours?”

“I don’t think—”

“Hold that thought.” I raced to the bathroom, hoping I made it before my bladder gave out.

When I returned, Zack continued, “As I was saying, I don’t think a ten on the Richter scale would have woken you. Around eleven I removed your shoes, tossed a blanket over you, and went to bed.”

He handed me a cup of coffee, and I polished off half before speaking. “I can’t remember the last time I slept twelve hours. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I slept for five uninterrupted hours.”

I noted Zack had already dressed for the day and that a packed duffle stood by the door. “Another trip?”

“I haven’t had time to unpack.”

“Where were you the last few days.”

“D.C.”

“D.C.? As in home of Spies R Us?”

“As in headquarters of
National Geographic
,” he said. “I’m not a spy, and there are no Guatemalan hit squads after me. Where did you ever get that idea?”

I tried to explain the convoluted path to my hysteria, but my explanation sounded irrational and lame, even to me. Still, was the idea really that farfetched? Finally, I just said, “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? It’s not like I can call the government and ask if they have a spy named Zachary Barnes on their payroll.”

“I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.”

“I trusted Karl. Look where that got me.”

“Point taken, but I’m not Karl.”

“Point taken. Will you at least tell me how you found out about Vince?”

“If I do, you’re going to owe me big time.”

“I already owe you. Who is it?”

“My ex-wife.”

“How—?”

“She’s with the Manhattan D.A.’s office, and she could get into a hell of a lot of trouble if word got out that she discussed an ongoing investigation with me. That’s why I got all cloak and dagger with you and why you can’t breathe a word of what I told you to anyone. Okay?”

I nodded. “So you’re really not a spy? The photo-journalism isn’t a cover?”

Zack pointed to the bookcases across the room. “Feel free to check out my work from my first published spread over twenty years ago to the latest issue of
National Geographic
.

“I’m really a photo-journalist, Anastasia. I’ve never wanted to do anything else. I’ve never been a spy, and I have no plans to change my career now or ever.” He paused while this sank in. “Are we cool?”

“We’re cool. Can you forgive me for being such an irrational idiot?”

“Already forgotten.” He flashed one of his sexy Zack smiles, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was wrong with his ex-wife that she let such a great guy get away.

When I rented the apartment to Zack, I had expected a tenant I’d rarely see, given his work schedule. I never anticipated the man would insinuate himself into my life the way he had in such a short time.

“The least I can do is make you breakfast,” I said, needing to put some space between us. “Give me a few minutes to shower. I’ll leave the back door open for you.”

With that I ducked out of his apartment. My hormones had started raging again the moment the man smiled at me, and this time PMS had nothing to do with it. The shower I planned for myself wouldn’t be including any water from the hot water faucet.

Sixteen

After my libido-squelching cold
shower, I threw on a pair of jeans and a faded
Defy Gravity
T-shirt from back before my life had ended up in the crapper and I used to enjoy attending a Broadway show at least once a month. Sadly, theater-going had gone the way of every other luxury. Broadway? Hell, I couldn’t even afford a ticket to a third-rate community theater production.

With that sober thought, I headed to the kitchen to whip up an enormous stack of pancakes. Everyone else was still asleep, but I knew they’d be clamoring for breakfast soon. Alex and Nick had a baseball game today, and I’d promised Mama I’d take her to the Tiffany’s up at Short Hills Mall.

Mama needed to get Cleveland appraised for the insurance company since I hadn’t been able to find a receipt anywhere in Lou’s desk. Either he was one of those guys who never saved receipts, or he’d left it in his desk at work. Frankly, I’d rather pay for the appraisal out of my own pauper’s pocket than explain to Sheri why I needed to rifle through Lou’s office.

Of course, after meeting Lou’s ex-wives at his funeral, I also had my doubts as to whether Lou had actually purchased the ring at Tiffany’s, even if I had seen his latest stock statement. Something definitely wasn’t Kosher on that front. His ex-wives claimed the guy was broke and hadn’t paid alimony in ages, but his investments portfolio stated otherwise.

Either way, the possibility existed that the only genuine Tiffany owned by Mama was that signature robin’s egg blue box. I only hoped for her sake that Cleveland was indeed the real deal, even if a second-rate diamond, and not
faux
.

Zack walked in just as I cracked the last egg into the flour and our resident Shakespearian scholar squawked his daily wake-up greeting.
“
I am so hungry, that if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years I could stay no longer
.
Henry the Sixth, Part Two
. Act Four, Scene Ten.”

“Hell hath no fury like a food-deprived parrot,” I said, turning on the mixer and handing Zack a spatula. “Would you mind while I feed the ruler of the roost?”

Zack grabbed the spatula and stood over the mixer while I filled a water bottle and scooped bird seed into a clean bowl. I had learned shortly after Ralph came to live with us that when the bird wanted his breakfast,
now
wasn’t soon enough. Ralph had no patience for waiting while I collected his empties, cleaned the containers, and refilled them. He expected me, his servant, to arrive with sustenance in hand.

When I returned to the kitchen, Zack was dropping the first ladle of batter onto the hot griddle. “Hey, I thought I was making you breakfast.”

I took over pancake duty while he poured us each a cup of coffee and began to set the table. One by one the rest of the household woke up and wandered into the kitchen.

Lucille arrived first, Mephisto in tow. “You again,” she said to Zack as she sat down and waited to be waited on. Then she turned to me. “Some example you’re setting for my grandsons the way you dishonor your husband’s memory.”

“Good morning to you, too, Lucille,” I said, slapping a plate of pancakes in front of her.

She grunted. I didn’t fool myself into believing the grunt represented a thank you, but I took the high road anyway. One of us had to act like an adult. I pasted on a smile and said, “You’re welcome.”

She ignored me, choosing instead to tear off a corner of pancake and feed it to Devil Dog.

“Maybe you should stop being so accommodating,” suggested Zack. He grabbed Lucille’s plate out from in front of her. “Good morning, Lucille.”

“How dare you! Give me back my plate!”

“Good morning, Lucille,” he repeated.

Ralph swooped into the kitchen at that moment and took up residence on top of the refrigerator. “
Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, and doth it give me such a sight as this?
” he squawked. “
Romeo and Juliet
. Act Four, Scene Five.”

Lucille shot Ralph one of her evil-eyed glares and sent a second one Zack’s way.

“Right on, Ralph,” I mumbled to myself, trying to keep from laughing out loud. I don’t know how he did it, but Ralph never failed to amaze me with his situation-appropriate quotes.

Zack ignored Ralph (how, I’ll never know) and kept his voice calm. “Good morning, Lucille.”

I suppose she finally decided winning the battle of wills wasn’t worth the spoils of cold pancakes. “G’morning,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

Zack returned her plate and turned to me. “See? All she needs is a bit of training.”

“Great. I’ll add it to my to-do list.”

“Stop talking about me behind my back,” said the chore in question.

Alex and Nick arrived next. “Morning, Mom,” they said in unison. They sandwiched me between them and each gave me a peck on the cheek.

“Have an enjoyable night?” asked Nick in a sing-song voice.

“You’re looking very sat—”

“Get your minds out of the gutter!” I snapped at them.

“We’re not little kids,” said Nick.

“You don’t have to pretend for our sake,” added Alex. “We’re totally cool with you and Zack hooking up.”

“We did not hook up!” I turned to the hunk in question. He had a bemused expression plastered across his face. “Would you please set my sons straight? They’re obviously not going to believe a word I say.”

“Nothing happened, guys. Your mother fell asleep on my sofa and slept for twelve hours. I think you owe her an apology.”

“Likely story,” muttered Lucille.

Nick shrugged. “Sure. If that’s the way you want to play this. Sorry, mom.”

“Yeah, sorry,” said Alex.

Neither of them could hide their smirks, and Alex gave Zack one of those guy shoulder punches as he headed for his seat at the kitchen table. I slammed a plate of pancakes in front of him. “We’re not
playing
anything. Eat your breakfast.”

“Playing what?” asked Mama as she entered the kitchen.

“Mom spent the night at Zack’s,” said Nick.

“Well, it’s about time!” said Mama. “I was beginning to wonder what was the matter with the two of you.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I turned to Zack for support, but all he did was shrug.

From the top of the refrigerator Ralph added his two cents, “
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Hamlet
. Act Three, Scene Two.”

“Traitor,” I said.

Having wolfed down her pancakes, Lucille hoisted herself out of her chair and shuffled out of the kitchen. God forbid she bother to place her dirty dishes in the sink.

“That does it,” said Mama. “I’m petitioning the Pope. You deserve sainthood, dear.”

“We’re not Catholic,” I reminded her. “Besides, I’m still very much alive and planning to stay that way for quite some time to come.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Mama, totally ignoring the part about us not being Catholic. “Although if anyone could drive someone into an early grave, it’s that pinko battle axe.”

_____

An hour later, Zack had departed for his apartment, and the boys and Mama were dressed for the day, Mama in one of her classic Chanel summer suits—apricot with white piping—and the boys in their baseball uniforms. I remained in
Defy Gravity
and my jeans since I was merely the chauffeur.

After dropping Alex and Nick at the ball field, Mama and I headed up to Short Hills. I hadn’t been to the Short Hills Mall since Batswin and Robbins coerced me into a sting operation meant to nab Ricardo. The sting failed big time. That day my life got a whole lot worse before it got any better. Not that my life was anything near a bed of roses at the moment, but at least Ricardo continued to reside in barred and razor-wired accommodations provided by the federal government.

Aside from reminding me of Ricardo, the Short Hills Mall dredged up memories of a life no longer mine. Not that I shopped often at the upscale stores that comprised the mall, but I had shopped there once in awhile. I’ve since gone from an occasional splurge at Bloomingdale’s to being a regular at Wal-Mart.

As I pulled into the parking garage, I wondered if after Mama’s visit to Tiffany’s, I’d be adding another line item to my
Reasons For Not Shopping At Short Hills Mall
list. I kept my reservations to myself, though. If needed, I’d be there to support and comfort Mama, but I wasn’t about to fill her head with anxiety over my suspicions concerning Cleveland when I might be wrong.

After all, Mama knew more about diamonds than I did, and as far as she was concerned Cleveland was the real deal. Karl had
never given me a diamond engagement ring. He thought we should use the money he’d spend on a ring for a down payment on a house. Practical me agreed. Now I wish I hadn’t been so prac
tical. If I had my own mini-Cleveland, I could hock it and pay off a lot of Karl-induced debt.

I parked the car, and Mama and I headed for Tiffany’s. “I’ll wait for you over there,” I said, pointing to the chairs and tables set out in front of the Nordstrom coffee bar. Did I dare splurge and treat myself to a four-dollar latte?

“I’m sure I won’t be long, dear.”

Mama headed into Tiffany’s, and I headed for the coffee bar. Hell, four dollars wouldn’t mean the difference between solvency and bankruptcy. I’d lived like a monk for three months. After all I’d been through—and was still going through—didn’t I deserve a four-dollar indulgence? After all, it’s not like I was walking into Georgette Klinger for a spa day.

I purchased a caramel latte and sat down at one of the wrought iron ice cream tables to enjoy my decadent purchase. I hadn’t taken more than three sips when Mama came storming out of Tiffany’s.

Damn. I’d really hoped I was wrong about Cleveland, but the expression on Mama’s face told me otherwise. She yanked out the chair opposite me and sat down. Instead of being on the verge of tears, anger colored her a frightening shade of red that clashed with her apricot suit. Her lips tightly clenched, her hands balled into fists, she didn’t say a word. I waited for her to gain control.

After about a minute, she took a deep breath, and the muscles in her face relaxed enough for her to speak. “That man!” She yanked Cleveland off her finger and slammed it onto the table. “And to think I believed him. ‘Don’t worry about anything, Flora. I’ll take care of you, Flora. You’re my delicate flower, Flora.’ Bullshit. All of it. Thank God I didn’t marry him.”

I picked Cleveland up and studied the ring. It certainly sparkled like a real diamond. If fakes could look as real as real, what made diamonds so damned expensive in the first place? “What did Tiffany’s say, Mama?”

“That Lou certainly didn’t buy my ring from them because they’d never sell a ring of such poor quality.”

“So it’s still a diamond? Not a fake?”

Mama snorted a loud
harrumph
. “A seriously
flawed
diamond. I looked at the stone through a jeweler’s loupe. My diamond is full of inclusions. The gemologist said stones like this are only sold at discount stores. Discount stores! The man bought me a Wal-Mart diamond and stuck it in a Tiffany box! If someone hadn’t already killed the cheap weasel, I’d do it myself.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “It’s Karma. What I get for almost marrying a man I didn’t love.”

“You had the best of intentions.”

“Of course, I did, dear. And I guess it all worked out in the end. Had I married him, I’d have been stuck with him.”

Given Mama’s track record, I seriously doubted that, but if Lou—and I noticed she no longer called him
poor Lou
—had lied to Mama about his net worth and really didn’t have much money, what would have happened had he lost his job? The last thing I needed in my life was another mooching relative. I guess
poor Lou
really had been
poor
Lou.

That didn’t explain his stock statement, though. I saw the figures. All eight of them lined up to the left of the decimal point alongside the words
Total Assets
. If Lou had that kind of money, why had he bought Mama a bargain basement diamond?

Mama picked up the ring and with a loud sigh, placed it back on her finger. “The jeweler said with all the inclusions, it’s probably not worth more than a few thousand dollars. At least that will make a small dent in your bills, dear.”

“Mama, the ring is yours. You don’t have to sell it to help me get out of debt.”

“I don’t want the ring. It’s a reminder that I nearly married a con artist. One of those in the family was more than enough. Whatever I get for it is yours. Consider it rent for the many times you put me up.”

Although I hadn’t thought of Karl as a con artist, I suppose that’s exactly what he’d been. After all, he’d certainly conned me into a false sense of security.

I leaned over and kissed the top of Mama’s head. “You’re welcome to camp out at
Casa Pollack
any time you want. Don’t ever think you’ve been a burden to me.”

“Unlike someone else?”

Now it was my turn to sigh. “I’m afraid I’m stuck with her.”

“Why?”

“Really, Mama, I can’t throw her out into the street.”

“That’s only because you’re too nice.”

“That’s me. Anastasia the Nice.” And because I was so nice, I offered Mama the rest of my caramel latte. Somehow I’d lost my taste for it.

_____

On the way home we got caught in a huge traffic jam as we approached downtown Westfield. I couldn’t tell how far the backup went because of the twists and turns of our route, but the road we sat on resembled a parking lot. Nothing was moving, and I had no place to turn off to detour around the mess.